


We are all that sky

by Peasantaries



Series: Short Stories [6]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chronic Illness, Crohns Disease, M/M, Pining, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5038192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peasantaries/pseuds/Peasantaries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The boy who doesn't stop talking looks around his age, all wide-eyed sincerity and skin and bone. He's tan, although with a slightly washed out colour to him that’s easy to recognise. Ill.</em>
</p><p>  <em>Arthur has never spoken to this boy in his life.<em></em></em></p><p>  <em>And now he's asking how Arthur is feeling.<em></em></em></p><p>**<br/>Arthur and Eames meet through their hospital beds, in slightly less favourable conditions, but things always work out in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earlgreytea68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/gifts).



> So firstly I wanted to say thank you to earlgreytea68, and I want to gift this work to them. I was severely ill when I found Next Big Thing, and in any other circumstances, that piece of work would just be my favourite fanfic ever, but at that point in time I think I really needed it. 
> 
> This is slightly autobiographical, although the condition varies, and thankfully I am not one of the more severe cases as Eames is.
> 
> This is not a work in progress, it is completed, and I will be updating very shortly with the other half.

 

 

> _"The end of suffering does not justify the suffering, and so there is no end to suffering._ " -  
>  Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer

 

A hospital is not a nice place to be.

Arthur used to think it was.

When he would come for visiting, or for appointments and scans - he used to love the clean, sterile atmosphere of hygiene, the cafés on the ground floor, smelling of fresh coffee and the brightly lit shops warm and welcoming.

That is not a hospital.

A hospital lives inside its wards; it exists in the atmosphere of the hallways and the rooms of the second and third floors, where the people are, the patients, the nurses, the doctors.

A hospital is the noise of rushing activity, of beeping machines and drip wires and needles, the plastic taste of plain food and the smell of bed sheets and sickness.

A hospital is ashen, strange faces and groaning from down the hall and old people with shaky hands and confused expressions, the soft voices of nurses saying, 'you're alright, you're alright.'

Hospitals are sick people crying in pain and making low, guttural noises, lights flashing and monitors blaring throughout the night.

It's scary and huge, frighteningly strange and intimidating.

It's not a nice place to be.

Arthur learned that when he was seventeen.

*  
*

The boy on the next bed will. not. shut. up.

"Anna!" He'll call in jubilant excitement, as though he knows the nurses on rotation personally. "Did I ever tell you that blue is your colour?"

And she'll laugh in delight as she takes his blood pressure, and the boy - his name is absent from the whiteboard above his bed - will beam grandly and say, "your hands are awfully cold! And you alright?" And he'll clasp her hands and peer worriedly into her face.

"Dr Benson, what a delightful honour it truly is! Now what are we to discuss today? The weather? Sports? Surely not myself again."

"I never did quite catch your name - oh _Linda, _that's marvelous."__

"And how are you feeling today? Not too fed up, I hope, come, tell me all about it."

"This is the best chicken and leek pie I've ever tasted in my whole entire life!"

"I don't know why you never decided to be a professional chef - no, I'm being quite serious."

"When your hair catches in the sunlight it truly makes you glow."

"Where do you find these beds? I could take four home with me."

"You look ravishing as always, I must say."

"Now, isn't it just a wonderful day outside?"

"This water is ice cold. Ice cold. Absolutely bloody amazing, I don't know how they do it."

Everything is either _amazing_ or _wonderful_ or _splendid_ and Arthur wants to just ram his head straight through a wall and never wake up.

*

He's been here for three days and already he's going crazy. He wants to get up, to get out.

The surgery had been a success; he is now missing an internal organ, he is Arthur-sans-appendix, but he has to stay in hospital for the recovery process.

And he's going crazy.

He doesn't like sitting about all day, reading and resting and doing _nothing._

And what makes it worse is that he's in a public ward. He has to wait to use the toilet, to be able to wash. Isn't allowed to switch on the perfectly good TV, has to sleep at night with five other people in the room.

And the boy across from him.

He doesn't even know what he's doing here. All he knows is that he's loud, obnoxious, a notorious flirt, a serial charmer, and doesn't. stop. talking. 

*

"Arthur!" Comes the unmistakable voice.

He looks up quickly from reading, frowning at the sudden interruption.

"How are you feeling? Bit better? Not so much?"

The boy who doesn't stop talking looks around his age, all wide-eyed sincerity and skin and bone. He's tan, although with a slightly washed out colour to him that’s easy to recognise. Ill.

Arthur has never spoken to this boy in his life.

And now he's asking how Arthur is feeling.

"Uh - yeah, thanks." Arthur stutters, confused.

The beam he receives is all crooked teeth and crinkled skin. It's really not warranted for his response, though.

He swallows. "How do you know my name?"

The boy lifts a finger and points to his headboard.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Alright. Well what's yours?"

"I'm Eames." That smile doesn't diminish, and he looks like he has a hard time talking around it.

"That's your name?"

"My second name." He says proudly.

Arthur's frown deepens.

"I could be undercover." He receives an exaggerated wink.

"Right." Arthur says slowly. "Hi." He doesn't want to be rude.

"Hi." Eames replies, grinning.

He wants to ask. He so badly wants to ask - the question burns his tongue. _Why are you in here?_ But that information has to be offered.

"You in a bit of pain?" Eames' expression crumples down, almost comically.

"Not bad." He grimaces. "Just - my side."

Eames nods understandingly, not prodding, not prying, but his expression of concern is what draws Arthur out.

"I - it's appendicitis." He says.

"Bollocks. Ruddy awful." Eames says immediately, so vehemently that it startles Arthur into a laugh. He quickly tries to stop it, but he shakes his head, unable to.

"Well, I - yeah." And laughs again.

"That's a wonderful smile." Eames tells him. "You should use it more often, darling."

His good mood sours with that crass compliment, remembering that he's dealing with the ward’s most notorious flirt.

Eames will tell anybody they're beautiful, for something as small as an extra ice cream pot.

"Yeah." He rolls his eyes, huffing in unexpected irritation.

Eames' face folds into a frown. "You don't believe me?"

"Sure." He says tightly. "So - why are you here anyway?"

The question seems to throw him, and he blinks. "I - "

Arthur immediately feels guilty. It's invasive and rude. "Sorry, you don't have to say."

Eames waves an arm. "It's alright. Well, my bowel perforated."

Arthur blinks. "Excuse - what?"

Eames spreads his hands and mimes something blowing up. "Bang. Just like that."

"What - they exploded?"

Eames' laugh, he has to say, is the nicest thing he's heard in a long time. It's delighted. "No!" He squeals.

"Well that's what you just said!" Arthur defends, cheeks heating.

Eames sobers. "Maybe they did." He rests a finger on his chin. "I'm a bit sketchy on the technicalities. But I had a bowel obstruction, which means something got a little blocked, and they had to cut a few bits and bobs out. Hopefully I'll be home soon."

He's stumped. "That sounds. Horrible." Arthur grimaces, swallowing.

Eames shrugs. "So does appendicitis. We're all here for a reason."

Arthur feels warmed. "Thanks." He says genuinely, and then feels like an idiot. "I just mean - "

"I know." Eames' eyes are soft in the natural lighting of the window, bright and opalescent green. He smiles, and Arthur smiles back.

*

Those two boys in ward 11 do. _not. stop. talking._

*

"Egg mayo?" Arthur curls his nose in disgust.

"If you eat if straight after water, it tastes like popcorn." He says, so seriously.

Arthur blinks. "Are you serious?"

Eames nods strongly. "Can't have popcorn."

Arthur smiles, although he feels a downward twist to his mouth. "That sucks."

"I've got egg mayo." He waggles his sandwich.

Arthur laughs. "Well, _that_ _sucks."_ He repeats.

Eames' grin is all mischievous.

 *

He learns over the course of the next few days that Eames has something called Crohn's disease - inflammation of the gut. From his esophagus to his stomach, his large and small intestine all the way down to his -

"Bottom." Eames finishes delicately. "All inflamed."

"Eames." Arthur says, mouth a tight, unhappy line.

"And so I have a lot of bowel problems, a lot of things I can't eat, a lot of tummy pain." He splays a large hand across his abdomen. "But that's about it."

"So how long? Have you had this?"

"I was diagnosed when I was four."

"Four? How did they find out?"

"Stuck a tube up. To see what was happening. Evidently, quite a lot."

"Jesus Christ." Arthur swears, and Eames colours.

"Sorry, I don't mean to lay all this on you - "

"No." He says forcefully. "It just sounds so awful."

Eames shrugs helplessly, unable to do anything more.

"Come on." He says suddenly. Eames blinks. They're sitting cross-legged on his bed talking, but Arthur stands, holds out a hand.

Eames takes his wrist warily. Arthur tries not to focus on the heat of his palm.

He brings a finger to his lips, and they sneak down the hallway, into a side exit, up the stairs and to the rooftop.

He takes a deep breath. "I come here sometimes to just get some fresh air."

Eames stares at him for a moment before turning away and closing his eyes, taking in deep, even breaths. He squeezes Arthur's hand.

*

"Sarah!" He hears at three AM, and the tinkling of laughter that follows.

Arthur rolls around and pulls a pillow over his head.

*

Eames is on a strict liquid, Arthur finds out when the doctors come on their rounds. He also finds out that his bloods are showing up a lot of inflammation, also a lot of deficiencies; vitamins, potassium, iron, calcium. He's put on a drip, grumbles and groans all the while rolling his eyes to Arthur as though this is all some game. He's given a lot of medication, tablets he has to take several times a day, so many that Arthur can hardly count.

He just looks on, jaw tense, heart beating fast. He can't seem to loosen the painfully tight sensation in his chest, that feels a lot like worry.

*

Eames' parents visit everyday.

They're blonde and British, loud, happy, and love him. That's all there is to know, really.

They bring him cake and ice cream and god knows what else and Eames sets it aside gently and tells them everything that's been happening.

Arthur is introduced, and comes over a little uncertainly, but after that, they all sit around Eames' bed, talking and laughing. They stay until visiting hours are over, and for a while after. 

*

Arthur doesn't really mean to listen in to Eames' doctors - honestly, he doesn't, but there's nothing going on in the ward, there is literally _no noise,_ and so when Eames' team of gastroenterologists come and pull the curtains around his bed, it isn't difficult to hear what they're saying _._

"Bloods are looking better, there slight improvement to your CRP, although -"

He hadn't even realised he'd been holding his breath.

"Your heart rate is still fast, and your blood sugar levels are low at the moment. We'll keep you on fluids for now to try and control your bowel activity, but just a few quick questions - how are your stools at the moment?"

"Uh - loose." Is the evasive reply.

"Really loose, would you say?"

"Not - no." Eames tries, cringing. Arthur grins despite himself.

"Okay, well we'll need to monitor them so if you could just collect anything you do for now and hand it to the nurse, that would be fantastic, alright?" There's an audible clicking of a pen.

"Sir, can I ask you a personal question?" Eames inquires.

"Go ahead."

"What made you want to go into the field of colorectal studies?"

Arthur has to stuff a fist into his mouth at the pregnant pause. He thinks he sees Eames' glittering eyes flicker to his through the slither of curtain.

*

Arthur is put on a fluid drip as well until they’re sure his insides are healed alright, and probably just to make sure he keeps hydrated while he recovers, so they bumble about awkwardly up and down the corridors during their daily exercise, knocking their toes and banging their knees as they stroll down the walkways to stretch their legs.

Eames is losing weight.

He's getting thinner as thinner, and it's a painful thing to watch. To _see._

He's only allowed the softest of foods now - soups, jellies. All liquids. Arthur hates to eat in front of him - even as Eames laughs him off and waves a hand.

He does everything he can think of to cheer him up. He tells jokes, tells stories - and Eames will gaze at him with those warm, fondly warm eyes, though the colour is startling clear, crystal green.

Arthur finds that he is beginning to enjoy Mr Eames' company a little too much. And he needs to remember that Eames is like this with everybody - he's famous in the ward, around the hospital. Everybody loves him, because he's friendly with everybody.

Arthur is no different.

*

Eames looks down at his plate for a moment, and an expression so glum passes his features, so dejected, that Arthur cannot have that.

He gets up, unplugs his drip from the wall, and says, "Hey Eames."

Eames glances up.

Arthur stands on the wheel and pushes off with his foot, skidding down the ward.

Eames' laugh is the most delighted and most delightful thing he's ever heard.


	2. Chapter 2

"Arthur my darling - " Eames begins grandly, grinning from ear to ear.

"Not your darling." Arthur reminds him distractedly, leafing through his book.

There's no reply for a moment, so Arthur glances up, only to find colour winding it's way up Eames neck.

"I - yes, of course." He stutters, flushing. "Sorry, force of habit."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Did you actually have anything to say?"

Eames darkens further, and Arthur raises his eyebrows in surprise at this reaction. He isn't normally so flustered.

"I - no." He finishes lamely, swallowing and turning away.

 

*

It happens again.

Eames grins and goes to curl a strand of hair around his finger as he sometimes likes to do, tug slightly in reprimand of a point Arthur has just made, but his hand hesitates and retracts slowly.

It feels as if he's pulling away.

Arthur tells himself it's nothing personal, that Eames is struggling with an illness. Still, the playful teasing ends, his flirtatious remarks cease.

It's just not _like_ Eames.

Although he thought the silence would be a blessing, he finds himself worrying.

 

*

"How's hospital life treating you?" Arthur asks after his turn in the bathroom, coming by to sit on Eames bed.

Eames grins, but he's paler today, his smile a little off, one side of his mouth down turned.

"Alright." He says, shrugging, uncharacteristically solemn.

"Only alright? I thought this was the best hospital in the world." He teases, bumping Eames shoulder.

Eames nods, silent.

A moment later, he says, "My family came to visit this morning."

Arthur frowns. "Don't they come everyday?"

"No, just mum and dad. My - my whole family come every week. My aunt and uncle, all my cousins."

"Where was I?" He asks, confused and slightly hurt he wasn't introduced.

"Sleeping." Eames grins, eyes soft. "I didn't want to wake you."

Arthur looks at Eames for a while, his hands picking at the sheet.

"What's wrong?"

"I just." He sighs, twisting his mouth. "I just want to go home." He looks away for a moment. "I miss home. I miss the way it smells. They way the living room looks. I miss my home."

Arthur swallows, breathing for a while.

"Thanks." Eames says abruptly, a little cheerier.

"For what?" Arthur asks.

"For not saying, 'I know.'" He smiles.

 

*

Arthur doesn't understand why Eames is getting sicker.

The doctors come by everyday but just seem to talk about his treatment, going on and on about his medication and surgery. They don't say anything of his symptoms. They don't say anything about a cure.

He has these bouts of pain, of being tired, fatigued. But there doesn't seem to be anything anyone can _do_ about it.

One minute Eames is grinning, eating away happily, sloppily nodding and - and the next, his - his face goes ashen and then abruptly floods with colour, and he's - he's on the floor, he's actually on the floor.

"Eames!" Arthur rushes, kneeling beside him where he's crouched.

Eames shakes his head, his entire face crumpling in pain, Arthur flings himself over and fumbles for the dial on his bedside, the button to press for the nurse, but Eames' hand is on his, taking his wrist and squeezing.

Suddenly he gets it.

"You weren't supposed to eat were you? _Were _you?__ For God sake Eames, why do you eat these things when you know - "

"Stop, just stop, just stop - " Eames gasps, writhing. "Just stop just stop just stop."

He tries to put a hand on his back but Eames makes a sharp cry and turns away from him rocking, head pressed to the side of the bed.

"Alright, it's alright." Arthur murmurs.

He groans, quiet and hurt and agonized, and then this sob comes out of him, heaved from his chest, dry and so _in pain_ he's never heard a sound like it, he never will. Arthur swallows in helpless, powerless, pathetic misery. There's nothing he can do.

"Please just stop, please just stop." Eames gasps, twisting his whole body. "Stopstopstop."

He suddenly shakes his head vehemently. "Arthur, don't - want to see." He manages.

And he tries to push Arthur away, to twist out of his hands, weakly shoving, but Arthur's strokes his hair, and Arthur stays.

"I'm here." He keeps saying. "I'm here."

Eames shakes his head, curls up around is stomach. It takes a while, but he settles from his violent thrashing, he seems to calm.

Arthur waits.

He isn't rocking back and forth any more, but he's still shaking, silently.

It takes him a while to realise Eames is crying.

Arthur strokes his back.

"It's over." Eames says, voice a bare croak. And Arthur stays.

 

*

He's quiet for days afterwards. Tired bruises line underneath his eyes.

He's sick. He's really sick.

 

__*_ _

Arthur is introduced to Eames' family eventually when they come to visit at the end of the week. They crowd around his bed with balloons and presents, as loud and boisterous as Eames himself.

He finally knows where Eames gets his flirtatious nature from.

Eames falls asleep during their visit, nodding quietly to a story until his eyes droop, and then the voices lower to a whisper.

Arthur watches him, a soft smile on his face.

"Oh, remember this one." He hears Judy, Eames mum, laughs quietly.

Arthur glances up curiously to find a photo album laid across the bed by Eames' feet.

He frowns. "What's that?" He whispers.

"Well, we thought we would bring some old photos over." Judy says, angling the book towards him. "Sometimes it cheers him up, makes him laugh when he's a little homesick like this."

He leans across to see.

And in all the photos there's Eames, his wide grin still the same but on a younger face - a child, his little fist gripped around an IV drip towering over him. Sat on a bed with cards and balloons filling up the room. A teenager, eleven, twelve, always beaming, always thin.

Always in hospital.

Photos with nursing staff and family - with hands pointing to his stomach and thumbs up, another with a GOING HOME sign held above his grinning head, eyes squeezed shut standing on the hospital grounds. One with a waving Eames lying horizontal about to be wheeled in for a CT scan, another with his shirt lifted to show an impressive scar tailing his hipbone.

And other ones with him, tired and small curled up in the hospital bed, grimacing his smile. Half-lidded eyes as he stands with all the nurses in he hallway, dead on his feet but still smiling as a kiss is pressed to his smooth cheek and a HAPPY BIRTHDAY balloon is gripped in his hand.

"He always was happy. But a hospital isn't a place for child to be. It's not a place to grow up, to live." Judy's voice is soft at his side, and she runs a finger over the photo of one of Eames' less genuine grins.

Arthur's eyes burn, abruptly. "He deserves so much more."

Her smile is understanding. "The best people in life have usually been through the worst."

 

_*_

He's lying awake. He can't seem to fall sleep.

Everything is whirling around in his head, every thought seems to tangle in his mind. Arthur shifts, restless, uncomfortable.

He keeps thinking about the photos. The way Eames puts a brave face on for his family, the way he's so cheerful, so lively, even as he's in pain.

He teases and jests, and yet his playfulness isn't vulgar. He isn't insincere. His eyes, so genuine, so warm, always kind -

When Arthur realises that, suddenly he has to get up.

It's as if everything makes sudden and abrupt sense, the world tilts on it's axis and readjusts completely, and the motion sickness makes him have to stand up because his head is dizzy.

Eames isn't sleazy. He isn't a notorious flirt; arrogant and loud and ignorant.

Eames is wonderful.

Because he makes people happy. He makes literally anybody he knows happier than they were before they began talking to him, before they even saw him.

His boyish, charming grin seems to melt away their problems even before he opens his mouth and doubtlessly distracts them from the thing that has been bothering them all day - startles them into laughter and lightens their mood, brightens their life.

And Arthur - he makes Arthur.

Arthur pads softly over to his bedside, sits down quietly beside his sleeping form.

"Wh -" Eames starts muzzily, smacking his lips. "Da - Arthur, what are you doing?"

Arthur takes up Eames stick thin, _stick thin,_  wrist, and places a kiss to the bone, where his arm meets his hand, sets it down gently on his chest, leans forward and kisses Eames' brow bone, his skull so delicate underneath his touch.

Eames blinks in startled bewilderment. He stares, eyes wide, as Arthur stands and goes back to bed.

 

*

Eames avoids him.

He doesn't understand. Arthur tries not to show his hurt, how the blatant avoidance stings: every time he crosses the room to get away from Arthur, glances away if he catches Arthur's eyes.

Arthur respects his wishes, though. He keeps his distance. But it starts to become unbearable, and by the third day he decides he had to say something.

"Eames." He starts curtly, to hide his nerves. "Why are you ignoring me?"

Eames' mouth thins, and he doesn't look at Arthur. "I know - I mean, I know you probably feel sorry for me, but I honestly don't need - "

"What are you talking about?" He asks.

"You don't need to be nice and do - all these things you've been doing." His cheeks heat as he speaks, gesturing.

"Is that what you think? That I kissed you that night because I felt _sorry_ for you?"

Eames meets his gaze warily. He doesn't need the confirmation from that look.

"Eames." He states. "Do you think I would do anything that I didn't want to?"

He swallows, his eyes focused on Arthur.

"I wanted to kiss you." He says, then clenches his jaw, and braces himself.

"I want to kiss you."

Eames stares for a moment. And then he smiles: wide and charming, with something shy to the twist of his lips, his eyes bright, happy, reverent.

Arthur doesn't think there's anyone in the world who is incapable of falling in love with Mr Eames.

 

_*_

_Things are good._

Things are great, things are _amazing_ and brilliant and wonderful and anything else that can describe it. They're inseparable, living in each others pockets. Everything seems to be lighter, more colourful, _better._

The hospital is suddenly more vibrant, energetic, full of life. The food is suddenly more appetizing, the day suddenly looks more promising.

His mum comments on his mood change when she visits but he only grins, shrugging, and looks to Eames who doing the same thing, a grin playing on his mouth.

Arthur feels invincible.

Then Eames has another bout.

He's ill for days. He doesn't eat at all. He loses weight by the hour. Arthur is so worried he's kept up at night sick.

And he's quiet afterwards, pulling away again, slowly but surely.

Arthur isn't going to lose the best thing that's ever happened to him because of this.

He sits on his bed. "What's wrong?" He asks him eventually, after a moment of silence.

"Nothing." Eames says instantly.

"I know something is wrong."

Eames shakes his head tiredly. "Really."

"Please, Eames."

He's silent for a while.

"You know hunger - it burns." Eames begins.

Arthur is silent.

"It's like this emptiness, but it hurts. Some days you'll take that over a spasm. Some days you wake up ravenous and you think - fuck it, I don't care anymore, the pain is worth it." His expression twists, and then he swallows. "And some days you think I can't take one more second of pain. I'll starve before I have a spasm."

Arthur waits, doesn't dare move.

Eames has never spoken about it before, he's always changed the conversation, laughed and waved and dismissed the issue. And Arthur has tried, but he didn't want to push, to pressure him.

Eames swallows before he continues.

"I've spent nights sobbing." He says simply. "Just so unable to feel anymore pain I wanted to die. Just so exhausted from feeling it I couldn't do it anymore."

"Eames - " Arthur takes his hand.

"No, Arthur." He rips his hand away. "I don't want - I'm trying to say that I'm not _good._ I'm not healthy."

"I don't care." He says.

"You don't want to spend your life in a hospital." Eames says, his voice hoarse.

Arthur shrugs carelessly. "Well, maybe I'll just spend my life with you."

Eames blinks at him for long moments. "There's no way."

"No way what?"

"There's no way you feel the same."

"Why?" Arthur tries to keep his voice light, his heart hammering.

"Because I'm not allowed nice things." Eames says, looking down at his hands with a twisted expression.

Arthur bends to pick something from his bag in order to give him the time he needs to regain his composure.

"Well, Mr Eames." He says, and sets the orange jelly on Eames' lap. "I think your luck is about to change."

Eames looks to him.

Then he smiles his bright, familiar smile. Boyishly charming, bold and crooked and lopsided. The one that made him fall in love with Eames in the first place.

 

*

It happens one night when they're watching a movie on his laptop.

Eames turns to him grinning, his eyes lit by the blue glow from the screen, expression positively alive in happiness, and Arthur leans up and presses their mouth together.

Eames jumps, surprised, and Arthur stills until he feels a warm hand on his cheek, keeping him in place.

Arthur moves closer, trying to press himself along the length of Eames' body, when there's a clatter and he looks to see Eames' laptop has fallen on the floor.

"Oh - "

"Just ignore it." Eames says breathless, running his hands up and under Arthur's shirt.

Arthur nods, bringing his knee up to straddle Eames' waist, his hands winding through his hair, when there's a shrill, piercing alarm, and he startles quickly to realise that he's disconnected Eames' IV drip.

He rears back quickly, adjusting the wire. "Eames, this has come loose, I don't know - "

"It's a saline drip for Gods sake, I'm not going to die without some _salt."_ Eames snaps, his grip tightening.

Arthur laughs into his mouth.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*

His doctor comes by one morning, and he doesn't think anything of it until she clasps her hands and says, "well, it looks like you're ready to go home."

Arthur blinks up at her, putting down his cereal. "Um."

"Your wound has healed well, the surgery seems to have been a success. I think you're ready to be discharged."

His eyes immediately go to Eames in the other bed, still asleep, curled up on his side.

"Um."

"Is this not good news?" She laughs. "I've never had such an unenthusiastic reaction before."

"Yeah, I just - yeah. Okay. Thanks." He says, shaking his head.

"Alright, well I'll get your discharge information, and any time you want, you're free to go."

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

  
*  
*

 

He walks the ward from memory, walks to the room he spent two weeks living in, the floors so familiar to him.

The feeling is like coming home.

And the smell is still the same: antiseptic and linen, freshly mopped hallways, the walls the same painted faded white and blue, the feeling so similar.

And there he is, watching TV with his yogurt in his lap, hair unwashed and greasy, still in his pyjamas at two in the afternoon.

Arthur comes close to his ear. "Hello, Mr. Eames."

His head whips to him. "Arthur." He says, with something like awe in his voice, and then he laughs, wildly happy. "Arthur."

 

__________*_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_2 weeks ago_

 

He's still losing weight.

He can't make a few steps, his stomach hurts, his back aches.

They lie in his bed, his laptop sat between them, neither of them watching. Arthur is trailing fingers up Eames' bony wrist, playing with the hem of his threadbare t-shirt and brushing along the sunken curve of his hipbone.

Eames stills his hands. Arthur glances up to him.

His eyes are dark and serious. "Wait." He asks. "Wait for me."

Arthur looks back. "What did you think I was doing?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this as I was reading Next Big Thing and I honestly cannot recommend that piece of work more - the characterisation, the humour, plot and everything is all I have wanted in a book. 
> 
> Crohn's Disease is a very individual illness - but I think anyone would agree that it's a horrific one. It can make you lose your will to live. 
> 
> I was in hospital when I wrote this because it takes a certain kind of perspective to be able to write illness - and I don't even think I have done it very well. I know that this story may seem hopeless because of the way I felt writing, and I don't want to convey that message. 
> 
> There are ups and downs in being chronically ill, and I can say things will get better and I can say things will also get worse but the only thing that you can do is keep going. You've made it this far.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and criticism alike I take on board wholeheartedly!
> 
> I'm also Peasantaries on [Tumblr](https://peasantaries.tumblr.com/), [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/peasantaries), and [ Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/peasantaries/)! Come over and talk to me! I'll never bite <33


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